Why Persian gatherings are never small.

There are two things you learn very quickly when you marry into a Persian family. The first is that there is no such thing as a small gathering.

When a gathering becomes a little piece of home

There are two things you learn very quickly when you marry into a Persian family. The first is that there is no such thing as a small gathering. The second is that if you think you are hosting a meal, what you are actually hosting is an extended, multi-course cultural summit complete with lots of life advice.

This is why, when we managed to seat 18 Persian expats around the table recently, I didn’t flinch. I simply ordered an extra coffee, prepared myself mentally for the rising volume, and surrendered to the fact that the evening would run on Persian Standard Time, which is roughly 45 minutes behind the rest of the world. I say this lovingly. After 20 years, my internal clock has stopped arguing.

What happens when expat life stops feeling quite so far from home?

Perhaps you create your own version of home — one gym group, one restaurant booking and one very large table at a time.

The group wasn’t born out of nostalgia exactly, but out of practicality. My hubby, H, reached a point where missing family wasn’t something he wanted to “just get on with” anymore. So he created a little gym group, both in person at David Lloyd, and on our mobiles. No branding, no grand vision, no painstakingly curated community guidelines. He pressed “create group”, added a handful of people he cares about, and hoped for the best.

It took on a life of its own, and within months we had a proper little Persian community scattered across the North East. There’s something endearing about it. A community built not from shared postcode or school-run politics but from familiarity, friendship and the comforting assumption that at least one or two of the group knows how to make decent tahdig!

A community built not from shared postcode or school-run politics, but from familiarity, friendship and the comforting assumption that someone, somewhere, knows how to make decent tahdig.

Our most recent gathering was heart-warming, even if the restaurant wasn’t remotely traditional. Usually, Persian meet-ups involve bbqs, lots of meat, herbs chopped within a millimetre of perfection and someone passionately adding the correct amount of saffron to rice dishes. This time, we chose Pizza Dough at The Three Mile on Great North Road, Newcastle upon Tyne. Not because we’ve abandoned our cultural pride, but because soft play is a great option when you are dealing with a small army of children, practicality was front of mind. The pizzas were hot, the coffee strong, the non-alcoholic Mojitos arrived with fresh mint, and the Persians delighted in the herbs almost as much as the drinks themselves!

You can change the restaurant. You can’t necessarily change the gathering.

Given that I was the only Brit at the table, adopted lovingly into this Persian circle through 20 years of trial and error and my over-enthusiastic rice consumption, I wanted to know what British traditions had rubbed off on them.

“What’s the most British thing you’ve adopted since moving here?” I asked.

The answers came fast. One person said “tolerance”, then explained that this was still a work in progress, currently sitting at an 83.7 percent success rate on their personal scorecard. It was the precision that made me laugh, as if assimilation could be measured like a maths test. Another admitted they had become evangelical about card giving at Christmas and birthdays. Someone else praised the beauty of mince pies, brunches and small talk, pointing out that only Britain could treat discussing the weather as a national sport.

Then, inevitably, the conversation swung in the other direction.

“What Persian tradition would you never give up?”

The passion in the room increased immediately. Culture, once excavated from the context of home, becomes clearer and easier to understand. However, one member joked that even after 18 years in the UK, it’s still sometimes hard to convince his brain that Monday starts the week. His body is hardwired for a 2shanbe beginning. Others nodded. Nowruz was non-negotiable. Yalda even more so. The language, the poetry, the food, the insistence on overfeeding guests until they need a lie-down. None of it was up for negotiation.

When it comes to Persian traditions, it’s not so much his choice, it’s me keeping him in line and making sure none of them slip away for Cyrus.

And as our conversation drifted to desserts, someone teased that ‘tiramisu’ might actually be from Rasht, if you said it in the right way in Rashti: TI-rah-MI-su. The way the vowels stretch made the Italian classic sound oddly at home by the Caspian Sea!

And to be honest, I understand….well, I understand more Rashti than Farsi in all honesty! Culture is the one thing these expats should hold on to strongly to ensure our children, those like Cyrus, grow up knowing their roots and how to celebrate.

I’m not sharing photos of the full group, even though my shot of 18 people would have made excellent blog content. Without permission, it doesn’t feel right. So it’s just a picture of the three of us, which feels modest but also strangely appropriate. Some things can grow without commentary.

The thing about this group, and what I love most about it, is that it was never trying to be anything big. It wasn’t a formal organisation. No one wrote a mission statement or set up a committee. It has simply become what people needed.

“Everyone is just doing what most Persian expats quietly do — stitch their identities together.”

And, crucially, a reminder that community is not about geography.

No one is trying to recreate Iran and no one is trying to become more British than the British. Everyone is just doing what most Persian expats quietly do, stitch their identities together. We share the traditions we love with the ones we’ve picked up and supported along the way. We’re building a village from the people who show up.

Sitting in that restaurant, surrounded by noise, pizza crusts and conversations that darted between English and Persian like a bilingual tennis match at David Lloyd, I realised something. This little group has become our family in the truest sense. The kind we choose. The kind that chooses us back and makes us feel special and loved. The kind that makes 4,000 miles feel slightly less heavy for H.

Despite having said our goodbyes hundreds of times, a little Persian tradition that makes leaving feel almost impossible, we finally headed home around closing time on that freezing North East night.

And it does make me wonder, in a practical, journalist’s-brain sort of way rather than a poetic one, how many of us are just one small message away from the community we’ve been missing?

Come along for the ride.

Life from the messy middle — family, culture, midlife, curiosity and all the things that make ordinary life much more interesting.